


As Long As You Like

by Kiraly



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9594935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiraly/pseuds/Kiraly
Summary: A week after their first encounter on the ferry, Michael and Signe meet again. Some things have changed. Some things haven't.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Minutia_R](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minutia_R/gifts).



> Here's a box of chocolates for you, Minutia_r! I took your Signe/Michael prompt and ran with it, so I hope it meets expectations. 
> 
> Also, I tried my best to figure out how all the various Madsens in [this picture](http://sssscomic.com/comic.php?page=47) would be related, but it's hard to know for sure.
> 
> Many thanks to Elleth for beta reading!

_The number you have dialed is not available. Please hang up, and try your call—_

“Signeeee, they’re fighting again!”

 _CLUNK._ Signe dropped the phone back onto its cradle and turned around. “What is it _now,_ Nicklas? I’m busy.”

Nicklas wrung his hands. He’d always been bad at handling conflict, but in recent days his nerves had become increasingly obvious. “It’s...Johanne and Lucas. I thought they worked out the meal rotation, but now they’re back to arguing. I don’t know what to DO!”

A spike of anger flared through Signe’s grumpy resignation. She’d already talked to those two about the _exact_ same problem yesterday, and a different issue the day before. In the week they’d been stranded on Bornholm, her life had been settling one petty argument after another. _Dammit, this is NOT my job!_

“And what does Oscar say about it?” she demanded. It was all very well to solve problems that came up on her shift when she was actually _working;_ it wasn’t like she could go running for a manager every five minutes. But they weren’t working, they were only on the ferry because they had nowhere else to go. With no customers and no clear idea when they’d be able to work again—or, hell, actually go _home—_ tensions ran high and tempers flared. But the forced inactivity meant that their supervisor _should_ have plenty of free time to handle this kind of thing, so Signe wouldn’t have to.

Nicklas had heard Signe rant about that exact thing only this morning, so he avoided her eyes now. “He’s...in his office, I think,” he said. He didn’t suggest that she should be the one to go talk to their boss, but he didn’t have to. No one else was going to do it.

“Fine. I’ll go talk to him.” Maybe she could try the phone in his office while she was there. This one clearly wasn’t working.

* * *

 

“—And see if you can pick up a newspaper while you’re there. We stopped having it delivered, but with the internet being so spotty, I’m dying for some outside news. Oh! And more batteries, just in case the power goes out again. And—”

Michael drummed his fingers on the door and waited for Marianne to finish. In the seat beside him, Mathilde jotted notes on her sister’s already-extensive shopping list. She was more patient than Michael; but then, she’d been living with Marianne for the past few years, so she must be used to this by now. _I wish they’d go ahead and open the damn border already. I don’t_ want _to be here long enough to get used to this._ It was bad enough that he was unemployed and would probably have to give up his apartment in the city and come back here to live once the travel ban lifted. To make things worse, he couldn’t get his phone to connect to a network, so he was stuck relying on the farm’s dodgy internet on a computer that should have been replaced years ago. He’d jumped at the chance to drive to Rønne on a supply run.

When Marianne finished her spiel, she stepped back from the truck—then paused, and reached through the window to drop something into Michael’s lap. “Here, don’t forget these.”

Michael held up a pair of paper face masks. “Really? Is this necessary?”

His sister scowled at him. “Yes, it is. They’ve been advising everyone to wear one for the past week. Actually, they _really_ want people to stay home, but since you’re going out, it’s the very least you can do.”

“Honestly, this whole thing is ridiculous! There haven’t even been any cases reported on Bornholm—”

“Michael. There are _children_ living here. You can wear the mask, or you can stay here and feed the pigs while _I_ go.”

“Fine! Fine, I’ll wear the stupid thing. Go back to your pigs!”

“Better feeding them than riding to town with one,” Marianne called over her shoulder. Michael muttered something equally unflattering and turned away.

“Don’t let her get to you,” Mathilde said, after letting him fume for a few minutes. “She’s worried, that’s all. This whole Rash business has gotten way bigger than anyone thought it would. I heard there are tons of people stranded by the border closings, both in Rønne and back on the mainland in Ystad.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Michael grumbled, but she did have a point. He might be stuck here, but he had a place to stay, even if it did mean far too much exposure to his family. And the media’s canned assurances that the rash wasn’t a serious threat, that everything would be fine, seemed less and less genuine the longer the border stayed closed.

The truck’s old radio crackled to life. _“Reports that another of the original patients has died. That brings the total up to—”_ Mathilde switched it off, nearly breaking the knob in the process. She cast Michael a guilty glance. “Sorry. I know Marianne wants to hear the news, but...I’m not sure I do.” She reached for one of the breathing masks and pulled it on.

“It’s fine.” Radio announcers didn’t usually have all the facts anyway. He’d check some reputable news sites when they got to town. Surely the internet would be working there.

After another few minutes of quiet, Michael put his mask on, too.

* * *

 

Signe slammed the door shut on her way out. “I can’t _believe_ this!” If she was being totally honest though, she could believe it. Far harder to swallow was the thought that she’d taken so long to put it together. She stormed down the gangplank and away from the harbor, not bothering to look back.

The streets of Rønne were a welcome change after a week in close quarters. Hardly anyone was out and about, and everyone she encountered gave Signe a wide berth. She remembered, belatedly, that public gathering was discouraged, if it wasn’t outright banned by now. Hopefully she could still find what she was looking for. A place with a working phone. Maybe a shower, if she was lucky.

An hour later, Signe had revised her criteria to “somewhere that’s actually _open.”_ Everywhere she went, she found locked doors, suspicious glares, and “closed until further notice” signs. It was a good thing she had one of the paper breathing masks the crew had been issued, because it kept anyone from seeing her grimace. Eventually she found her way to a shop that was obviously open—because she could hear a belligerent customer from all the way across the street.

“—ridiculous! I DEMAND to speak with your manager!”

The shop clerk shrank back. “I’m _sorry_ sir, but that’s how it is! We haven’t been able to get any new stock in, and the high demand has driven prices up, so—”

“Unacceptable! I won’t stand for—”

Signe decided to intervene before the poor clerk had a breakdown. “I thought that voice sounded familiar. Should have known it was you.”

The angry man broke off his yelling and turned to stare at her. “Wha—oh. Signe?”

“Hello, Michael.”

“What are you doing here?”

Signe’s laugh came out bitter. “It’s not exactly like I can go anywhere else. Sleeping on the benches, remember? How’s farm life treating you?”

He scowled. “About as bad as I expected. But probably better than sleeping on a bench. They really didn’t put you up in a hotel or anything? Assholes.”

The last word made a genuine smile easier to come by, not that anyone would see it under the mask. “Tell me about it! And that’s not even the worst of it. But hey, I’m being rude—this must be the famous sister, right? The one with the farm?” She nodded to the other woman, who’d taken the opportunity to have a quiet word with the shop clerk while her brother was distracted.

Michael smoothed his hair. He looked different than he had on the boat—still grumpy, but younger, somehow. Maybe it was the old sweater that did it; Signe thought it suited him better than business attire had. His sister bore a strong resemblance to him, though she didn’t seem to share his predilection for yelling at customer service people.

“That’s Mathilde. She’s not...I mean, she _is_ my sister, just not the one who owns the farm. We’re _trying_ to pick up some supplies, but this _person_ is trying to overcharge us.”

“And you were handling that very gracefully,” Signe noted.

“Yes, and—hey!” Michael scowled. “You’re making fun of me.”

No point in denying that, anyway. “Of course. Not like I have anything better to do.”

She couldn’t see his mouth, but Signe was pretty sure Michael’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “Any luck getting that plumber job yet? I see your customer service skills haven’t improved.”

Signe laughed. “Not yet, but with the amount of bullshit going on right now, it’s only a matter of time.”

* * *

 

It didn’t take long for Mathilde to finish her negotiations with the shop clerk. Michael made introductions— _”Remember the rude woman I told you about, from the ferry? This is her”—_ and then there was an awkward pause. Signe didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get on her way, and Michael felt the same; it was nice to talk to someone who _wasn’t_ a blood relative. But he could tell Mathilde was growing more anxious the longer they stood there. They’d have to go soon.

“So what brings you to the shop, Signe?” he asked.

She shifted the bag slung over her shoulder and looked at the ground. “I was hoping to use a phone, if they have one that’s working. My cell can’t pick up a signal, and the ones on the ferry can’t get through either.”

The clerk wilted further. “I’m so sorry ma’am, but our phone isn’t really for customers, and anyway it hasn’t been working well…”

Michael ignored the interruption. “My cell’s down too—probably this stupid island—but the landline at the farm is still working, right?” He looked to Mathilde for confirmation.

She nodded slowly. She’d been looking back and forth between him and Signe throughout the conversation, and now she leveled an extra-long look at him. “Yes, our phone was working last time I checked. Would you want to come use it? The farm’s a ways out of town, you’d probably have to stay for dinner.”

Signe’s eyes lit up. “That sounds perfect.”

* * *

 

The Madsen clan took to Signe almost immediately. After Michael had the obligatory argument with Marianne about bringing an outsider home— _”If anyone on that ferry was carrying the illness, I’ve already infected all of you”—_ they peppered her with questions about herself. It seemed to cheer her up; after using the phone, she’d been grim-faced and quiet.

“Nothing good,’ she said, when Michael asked about news from the mainland. He didn’t press for details.

The dinner conversation was considerably more lively.

“...and that’s how I got fired from my last job. But honestly, what else was I supposed to do? Stand on the table and do an exotic dance? I don’t care what they say, sometimes the customer is _wrong.”_ Signe downed the last of her drink.

Michael composed himself and shook his head. “Some people. Did you know, my former boss expected me to find a _helicopter_ back to the mainland? Of all the unreasonable expectations—”

“But you could have taken a helicopter!” Marianne interrupted. A wicked grin spread over her face. “I’m sure we still have that hat around _somewhere…”_

Michael blanched. “No. No, you do not—”

“See, when Michael was a kid,” Marianne continued, ignoring his protest, “He _really_ wanted to be a helicopter. Not a pilot, but the actual machine. And we had this hat—you know, with the propeller?” She twirled a finger around her head to demonstrate. “So _someone_ convinced him that he could probably fly off the barn roof if he only tried hard enough, and—”

“You mean _you_ convinced me,” Michael grumbled. “I could have broken my neck!”

“But instead he landed in a haystack, and came running to me in tears,” his mother said. She shot a sharp glance at her grandchildren. “And don’t you think about following his example, the barn roof is no place for you.”

Signe grinned. “A human helicopter, huh? How old were you?”

“Five,” Michael said.

“Twelve,” Marianne said, at the same time. Michael glared daggers at her across the table, and Signe laughed so hard she nearly choked on her potatoes.

The hour grew late. The kids went to bed, and the adults drifted off to various pursuits until only Michael and Signe were left at the table. The yellow light from the ceiling fixture cast shadows under Signe’s eyes. She looked tired.

Michael cleared his throat. “So. I suppose you want to get back to town now? I can drive you to the ferry.”

Signe nodded. Then she sighed, and shook her head. “Honestly...I’m not even sure where to have you take me. I don’t think I’m welcome back on the ferry.”

“What? Why? Because you left?”

She looked away, out the window toward the pasture. It was too dark to see anything now, but in the daylight it was possible to see all the way to the stand of trees that marked the farm’s border. “Not exactly,” she said. “I kind of...quit my job and stormed off.”

Michael blinked. Even after his joke about becoming a plumber, he hadn’t expected that. From the sound of things, her job history was even worse than his; he’d didn’t think she’d just quit. “Wow. Was sleeping on a bench really that bad?” _Nice. Very smooth, Michael. Making jokes at a time like this._

If Signe was bothered by his comment, she didn’t show it. “No. But it turns out the assholes weren’t going to pay us for anything, even the week we _did_ work before the borders closed. Said we were using company resources, and it was coming out of our pay.” She set her coffee cup down hard enough to rattle the table. “Didn’t find out about it until today, when I confronted my boss. Not like it matters when nothing’s even open to buy anything, but...” she trailed off with a shrug.

“Still. That’s—” _Completely unfair. And probably illegal, but it’s not like she could get a lawsuit going right now._ Plus she probably had more important things to worry about. “So you really don’t have anywhere to go?”

Signe snorted. “I mean, there might be a cozy bench _outside_ the ferry station I could sleep on—where are you going?”

Michael paused on his way to the living room. Magnus came through and twined around his ankles, purring. “To talk to my sister. I’m pretty sure we can put you somewhere better than a bench.”

Half an hour later, Signe perched on a blanket-covered couch, stroking the cat as he investigated her makeshift bed. “You didn’t have to do this,” she said again. Dressed in an old set of Marianne’s pajamas, with her hair falling out of its ponytail, she seemed softer. Of course, it was hard for anyone to look annoyed with Magnus snuggling up to them, purring up a storm. “I swear I’ll be out of here as soon as I can. I mean, _you_ deserve to put up with a freeloading pain in the ass, but your family doesn’t.”

“Right, of course.” Michael scooped the cat up and made to leave. “I’m sure you’ll be back to sleeping on a nice hard bench once you start your career as a plumber, but for now you’ll just have to put up with this.”

Signe’s mouth quirked. “Very funny.”

He felt his own face twitching into an answering expression. “I thought so.”

* * *

 

One night on the couch turned into two, then three. Signe knew she should really try to find other arrangements, but it was hard to convince herself when she thought back to the conditions on the ferry. And the bustle of farm life made for a good distraction. Her daily phone calls returned no good news, and sometimes she had to dial three or four times before she could even get a connection. It helped to have something to keep her busy afterwards, like learning how to milk the cows or mucking out the stables. Sometimes, she simply sat by the window with Magnus on her lap, staring across the fields until a demanding “mjav” brought her back to the important task of petting him.

And Michael was a distraction of a different sort.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding—you really _don’t_ know how to do anything!” Signe leaned on her pitchfork, making no effort to conceal her amusement. Michael glared at her on his way past, stooping low and creeping slowly forward. He neared his target, made a grab—and the chicken evaded him again, bustling off to the other side of the yard. Michael swore and landed on his knees in the mud.

“Damn bird! I’ll wring your stupid neck and make you into soup!”

“You’ll have to catch her first,” Signe observed.

“I don’t see _you_ helping,” he grumbled. He picked himself up off the ground, wiping his hands on his pants. There were already patches of dirt splotched all down his legs, and a smear across his nose. It almost made Signe feel bad for him. Almost.

“Well I wouldn’t want to ruin your fun! I think the two of you have a really special bond.”

“Signe…”

“Just look at how she runs away whenever you get near her! It must be true love.”

“Signe, please—”

“Everything all right out here?” Morten Madsen emerged from the barn, with a bucket in each hand and a smile on his face. Farm life seemed to agree with him more than it did his son.

“Oh, sure, we’re fine,” Signe said. “Michael’s just showing off his skill with the chicks. I mean, the _chickens.”_ She winked.

Morten’s smile widened. “Ah! Yes, Michael always did have a way with the girls. The hens, I mean, that’s what I call them.” He continued on towards the house, calling over his shoulder, “Just don’t get too distracted by the master chicken wrangler! That hay won’t spread itself.”

Michael sighed. “You’re the worst.”

Signe patted his shoulder and offered the pitchfork. “At sympathy? Probably. But I can’t be any worse at catching chickens than you are. Here, let’s switch.” She waded through the mud to where the chicken stood pecking at something on the ground. A few quick steps, a lunge—and she straightened, holding the bird aloft in triumph.

“Ha! Eat that, Michael!”

He shook his head and went back to the hay. “Don’t worry, I intend to.”

* * *

 

No one in the family ever asked who she was calling. They wanted to give her privacy, maybe, or didn’t want to make her worry more. Mostly, Signe was grateful. The warm, easy way the Madsens had with each other was a far cry from the way she’d grown up. But sometimes she wished she could talk about it, the creeping suspicion that nothing would ever go back to the way it was. They all danced around the thought, leaving it unsaid. In the evenings, they hovered near the radio, waiting to see if good news would come through. If any news would come through at all, because sometimes they couldn’t pick up a station. One of the sisters would start to complain about running low on something, then catch herself and stare out the window. “Out there” became a subject of worry for all of them.

So when Signe got the news she’d been dreading, she didn’t tell anyone. Just balled it up tight and buried it in her chest, the way she always had. It snowed that night, and she spent a long time sitting up, watching the white flakes blanket the farm. The next day, the phone stopped working.

* * *

 

“So Marianne took it out of my hand and gave me the dirtiest look, said she’d do it herself. I never _asked_ her to! I might not be any good at this farm stuff, but it would be nice to get a little credit for trying, you know? Sisters, I swear...Signe?”

As Michael ranted, Signe had grown quiet. They were out in the barn, taking a break after feeding the livestock. It gave him a chance to relieve some of his frustration without any family around to hear him. But from the far-away look on Signe’s face, he wasn’t sure she’d heard him, either.

“Earth to Signe? Everything all right?”

She looked up, face perfectly blank. “Fine. I’m fine.” Her voice came out even, but that...wasn’t like her. Signe bounced between sarcasm and sincerity, she never hit the bland neutral tone in between.

“Cut the bullshit, something’s bothering you.” Michael dropped onto the bench next to her.

“Bullshit?” A crack in the facade. “You want to know what’s bullshit, Michael? It’s standing there complaining about your sister, who took you in when this whole mess happened, because she _chopped some carrots for you!_ I mean, god, I get it, you two snipe at each other and in a perfect world you probably shouldn’t live in the same house. But at least you _have_ her! Marianne and Mathilde, your parents, the kids, the friendly neighbors who drop by to barter for butter—you have NO idea how good you have it.” Signe was on her feet now, hands balled into fists. “People on the mainland are panicking, they’re running out of food, they don’t know who they can trust because the rash is everywhere, and—”

“Signe, I—”

“No, shut up! I’m talking.” But then she wasn’t. Her hands shook, and her face crumpled. “Just...just stop,” she whispered. Then she fled.

Michael caught up to her at the edge of the field. His breath puffed out in great clouds, and he had a stitch in his side and mud on his knees. “Signe, please. You can—go ahead and yell if you want, just stop running!”

She slowed her steps, but refused to look at him. When she didn’t speak, he continued.

“I’m sorry. You’re right, I wasn’t thinking. I’ve been trying not to think about it—any of it—and pretend this is some kind of lame vacation. But that’s not...real.” He wasn’t going to move back to the mainland and find another crappy job. He was here, for better or worse, with these people. Including the woman in front of him, who still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I have a sister, too,” Signe said, after a long time. “We’re not...close. Never were. But we didn’t have anyone else.”

Several pieces fell into place. “And she lives on the mainland? She’s the one you’ve been calling?”

She nodded. “In Sweden, near Malmö. If the ferry had gone back to Ystad, I probably could have stayed with her if I missed the bridge closing. But...well, it’s probably best that I didn’t.”

“Better close quarters with a horde of Madsens than with her?”

“Michael, she has the rash.” The words came out in a rush. “She suspected it, but she wasn’t sure, she didn’t want to go to the hospital—but then, the last time I talked to her...I could tell.” She shook her head. “And now the phones are dead. So I can’t—there’s nothing else I can do.”

Michael sucked in a breath, released it slowly in a cloud of vapor. “Signe, I’m...I’m so sorry.” He was no good at comfort, not in situations like this where there was nothing to fix. But he had to try. “Is there anything...do you need some space? I can tell the others you aren’t feeling well, if you want to turn in early.” They could keep the kids out of the living room, probably.

But Signe shook her head. “No. Distraction is the only thing that really helps. Let’s go see if your sister needs any help with dinner, it’s almost that time.” She set off for the house, shoulders hunched against the wind. After a moment, Michael followed her.

“Sure, I bet she’d appreciate the help. Maybe I’ll see if she’ll let me have another try at chopping those carrots.”

* * *

 

Try as he might, Michael couldn’t get Signe’s words out of his head. Her confession haunted him all through dinner, and pricked his conscience as he prepared for bed. He had his family, a warm bed, and a purring cat to keep him company. Signe had...a couch. It didn’t seem fair.

With a sigh, he scooped Magnus up and turned towards the stairs. “Come on. You’re sleeping somewhere else tonight.”

Signe raised an eyebrow when he appeared with the cat in his arms, but she didn’t comment, just took his furry burden with a nod and a “good night”. Satisfied that at least he’d done _something,_ Michael went back upstairs.

Only to start back down a few minutes later, when Magnus came in and hopped onto the foot of his bed. “No, bad cat! You’re supposed to be with Signe!” Magnus purred, unfazed by the lecture, and allowed himself to be carried back. Signe looked amused when he turned up.

“He didn’t really get the idea, did he?” She stroked Magnus under the chin.

“No. It’s a good thing he’s cute, because he’s not very bright.”

It took all of five minutes for the cat to arrive the next time. “Magnus! What am I going to do with you?” Michael carried him down the stairs, shooed him towards the living room, and closed the door firmly behind him. _There. That should do it._

In hardly any time at all, the scratching started. Just a gentle nudge at first, then the sound of paws scrabbling against the wood. When that didn’t work, Magnus let loose a plaintive _mjav._ Michael rolled over, pulling the blanket over his ears. The cat would get the hint eventually. He just had to wait.

For a while, it seemed to work. Magnus grew quiet. But just as Michael started to drift off, the scratching started all over again. With a growl, Michael flung the blanket aside and stormed over to the door.

“Magnus, for the last time—oh. Hello.”

Signe slouched in the doorway, cradling a purring Magnus in her arms. “Look, clearly this cat knows where the best bed in the house is. Can I?” She gestured to the room beyond, and Michael stepped aside to let her through. Instead of setting the cat down, she sat herself on the bed with Magnus in her lap. “Close the door?”

Michael closed it. Signe patted a spot on the bed beside her, and after a moment’s hesitation Michael sat. For lack of anything better to do, he scratched the cat’s ears.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight, okay? You had the right idea with the cat, but...I think Magnus picked the better location.” She leaned against his shoulder. Carefully, Michael looped his arm around her. “So...can I stay?”

What other answer could he give? “Of course,” Michael said, “You can stay as long as you like.”

He said the same thing the following night, when she showed up at his door complaining that the couch was awfully cold. The third night, she came right out and said, “Stop being such a damned gentleman, Michael. You make a great heater, but I bet you’re good at other things, too.” He couldn’t argue with that, not when she punctuated her statement with a kiss. That night, Magnus slept on the couch after all.

* * *

 

“I think they’ve guessed,” Michael said one night, his breath warm in her ear. “The kids call you ‘Aunt Signe’ now, and Marianne keeps making jokes about how it took an apocalypse for me to find myself a girl.”

Signe laughed into his chest. “I think they were hoping for it long before either of us were. I saw some of those looks they gave me, at the beginning. Like they were sizing me up for a wedding dress.”

“Surely not. Anything we have around here would be a tent on you.” He brushed a kiss against her forehead. “And anyway, Marianne might have a point. I _am_ sort of the only eligible man around. Probably wouldn’t have had a chance, otherwise.”

Signe thought of the man she’d first met on the ferry—belligerent, rude, self-absorbed—and the man who’d offered her a place to stay, a place in his family, and even a cat to cuddle when she was sad. She should probably thank him.

Instead, she said, “Actually, you aren’t _quite_ the only eligible man. I’ll have you know Magnus and I are perfectly happy with each other.”

Michael snorted. “Very funny.” He pulled her closer.

Signe smiled and relaxed into his embrace. “I thought so.”

 


End file.
